


Beginnings

by TheTacosGrim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Human Michael, M/M, Season 11 au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 19:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10256126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTacosGrim/pseuds/TheTacosGrim
Summary: With Amara on the loose and the devil hijacking Castiel's body, the Winchesters have another problem to deal with: an all too human archangel and their long-lost little brother.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a year-old file that's been collecting dust on my computer. It was originally planned as part of a series, but I'm... not really sure what happened to the file that had the outline for the next entry. Hope you enjoy this dusty old thing! 
> 
> Forewarning for slight mention of panic attacks but nothing explicitly detailed. Slight descriptions of blood.

It all goes downhill when Dean gets the call about the old covenant going nuclear.

Again.

Sam goes pale. They’re packed in the Impala in ten minutes flat.

The demon horde mulling around one town over strums up a constant, dull thrum of dread in the pit of Dean’s stomach. Whatever they’re after, it’s _big_ if it means sending in all these troops. Somehow during the fight, the hunters stumble into the single safe house in the ghost town by equal parts necessity and chance. It’s the only one the demons can’t go near, they figure, because of the sigils hastily painted in blood on the door seal and windows like whoever inside is warding off a Biblical plague.

Whatever he’s expecting in there, it isn’t a ragged, dead-eyed Adam brandishing a bloody angel blade in front of some collapsed, possibly dead guy in the corner.

Dean lifts his hands slowly in surrender to the sound of his pulse hammering in his skull. “Adam?” he tries because he can’t be sure.

The blonde growls something Dean thinks is some bastardized form of Enochian.

“Michael?” he tries again, trying not to let the rage and dread bleed into his posture. He still doesn’t know who he’s facing down, but which ever one it is clearly is a couple bolts short of a sturdy desk. Sure, an archangel is deadly, but a guy with a nasty case of Hell-borne PTSD and an angel blade is still dangerous. Especially when Dean doesn’t have it in him to hurt his half-brother any more than he already has.

He hears Sam’s footsteps and throws an arm out across his brother’s chest to keep him from marching forward. “ _Adam?_ ” Sam chokes out.

Adam ( _because Dean is pretty sure archangels don’t get this spooked_ ) looks between them and back at the crumpled body on the ground behind him. Finally, he locks eyes with Sam and starts talking again, slower and less desperate. Dean really hopes he isn’t reaching to pick out the ‘ _Sam_ ’ in the middle of the harsh consonants. He doesn’t really know what to do when Sam’s brow knots up while he spits back an answer.

Whatever he says is the magic word. Adam’s shoulders shake, and the blade hits the floor with a clatter before he drops right to his knees with a gentle hand on the body behind him. Too-thin fingers curl into the dark fabric of the maybe-dead guy’s jacket. Adam looks up at Sam with wide, desperate eyes and whispers something that has to be a plea.

Dean tries not to be sick.

“Dean,” Sam tries. Probably not for the first time by the look on his face. “I think he’s begging us to help.”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat and nods, “You know we’re getting him out of here.”

“He’s not asking for himself,” Sam clarifies grimly, pointing to the body Adam is desperately protecting, “Michael.”

From the second they heard about the place where the convent used to stand, Dean has known this would be a possibility. That doesn’t mean his stomach doesn’t plummet all the same. “We’re _not_ —“

“He says he won’t leave,” Sam cuts in, “That Michael protected him, and he’s returning the favor.”

Dean eyes his brother suspiciously. There’s no fight in Sam, and that says something since he’s been cooped up with the bastard and his psycho brother, too. “You think this is a good idea?”

Sam sighs and shakes his head, “No. But I think it’s not going to hurt to have an archangel owe us one. Not if Lucifer…” Adam flinches at the name. Dean tries to ignore that. Sam gets that look in his eye, though. The one that says he’s already made up his mind. “He’s not making it up. I remember that: he didn’t hurt us.” Sam grimaces at the phantoms in his head.

Dean doesn’t like it. He doesn’t have to because, archangel or not, those wards won’t hold forever, and they need to get Adam out even if it means hauling a dead weight with them. At the very least, Dean figures they can get some information about Lucifer out of one of them.

Anything to get Cas back.

Sam has to coax Adam aside. Since he’s the only one who can speak a word or two of… possibly Enochian ( _Dean doesn’t want to think about why_ ), Dean is left rolling the angel onto the back of his shiny new vessel. The guy is out cold, which can’t be a good sign. Blood is still seeping from his palm of his hand onto the floor. Judging by the look of it, it’s his blood forming those sigils. Again. Not a good sign. That’s not even counting ode de Hell in the brimstone and sulfur scent he can’t pin exactly to Adam or Michael.

Dean tries not to wretch at the familiar smell.

Michael is breathing at least. Probably not much of a victory considering it isn’t the body they have to worry about. Since he can’t find anything serious they can field dress, Dean hauls this new vessel up as best he can. Sam joins him at the other side while Adam scrambles to pick up the angel blade.

Sam says something to Adam, who startles but nods. “We need to get to the car,” Sam points out, “Fast.”

They make it out. Barely. By the time they’ve got Adam and Michael crammed in the back seat, there’re at least three demons flashing black eyes at them while trying to make it over the salt lines in the yard. Dean says a silent apology to Baby before he floorboards it fast enough to crash through the growing line of demons and onto the road.

By the time they’re far enough for Dean to relax, it’s dark, and he’s determined not to catch a glance at the lost brother who’s in dire need of a haircut, shave, and a lifetime worth of therapy or the archangel slumped like a ragdoll against the opposite door.

 

 

 

Adam harps in angry, rapid-fire Enochian while Sam and Dean work on fortifying the lockdown room against an archangel. Sam ends up having to distract Adam so Dean can focus on painting every anti-angel warding spell they can dig up in the bunker. Judging by the severe puppy eyes Sam has going on, he’s only catching a word or two a sentence. It’s even worse when he tries to cobble together a response that isn’t one of fifteen varieties or ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

If they didn’t have half the Terrible Two that made their lives living Hell a few years back lying unconscious on a spring mattress a few feet away, Dean would think it was hilarious. Aside from the whole ‘Adam doesn’t remember English’ thing. That’s never not going to make Dean double with guilt.

The finishing touch is the ring of holy oil around the steel-frame mattress and the demon cuff that Dean clicks shut around one of the steel bars with the other around Michael’s nearest wrist. Adam folds his arms over his chest and leers, but Dean takes that as a good sign; if the kid is spunky enough to go around starting fights no one can understand, it’s better than the alternative.

Sam shoots him a ‘ _are you kidding me?_ ’ look, “You know that’s just going to make him angry.”

Dean shakes his eyes and thumbs the lighter in his pocket, “Seconds, Sammy. I’m getting us I can.” Sam sighs but lets it go. Dean scoots a chair out to the side of the room and takes a seat. “I’ll take first watch,” he decides, “You go get the kid a haircut and a burger.”

To Dean’s credit, he’s thinking more about how he doesn’t want to get near Adam with sharp objects when he can’t talk to the kid before they know just how deep the trauma runs. Sam seems to relax and tries to cobble together some kind of communication that’s half clumsy words and half charades. Adam looks pensive but gives in a lot faster than Dean expects.

That leaves Dean alone with Michael. He waits all of ten minutes before he steps over to the guy to check his hand. He has to grab a bottle of water and a cloth to wash away the blood. He decides that he’s only being gentle because it’s like handling a nuclear warhead. He doesn’t really have a reason to be otherwise, aside from basic human decency. It doesn’t matter that he knows as well as Sam that, while Lucifer misdirects with the best of them, he’s got that twisted pride in not out-right lying, and there hadn’t been any other way to interpret what he’d said about his brother going nuts in the Cage.

This isn’t Sam, he reminds himself, just in case. Dean’s reputation as a heartless bastard needs to be maintained.

Besides, he’s distracted soon enough when he realizes that, no, the wound on Michael’s palm hasn’t closed. Sure, it has quit bleeding, but it’s still there. He frowns and ends up wrapping it, just in case all they’ve got is the meat suit of a burned out angel on their hands.

Dean really doesn’t want to be the one to explain _that_ to Adam.

When Sam comes in three hours later to switch watches, he sees it but doesn’t mention it. Instead, he drops in the chair with his laptop and sets a lighter out next to the keypad. “Adam’s asleep,” he announces, rubbing his hands across his face, “He’s in bad shape, but he’s not…”

“Like you were,” Dean finishes because they can’t afford to ignore this one.

Sam gives him that tight-lipped look that means he’s a maelstrom of emotions right now. “Yeah,” he answers, “The best I can put together is that either he’s gone full Stockholm, or…” His eyes drift meaningfully at the still unmoving angel.

“Or that bastard actually helped him?” Dean scoffs skeptically, “Not likely.”

Sam frowns, doe-eyed and thoughtful, “I can’t really understand him, Dean. I’m going off a couple words a sentence. If Cas were here—“

“Yeah, well he’s busy being a taxi for the damn Devil,” Dean snaps irritably. He only catches himself in the tense silence after he’s said it. “Look…”

“It’s fine,” Sam cuts him off, “I get it, alright? He’s an archangel and not exactly Lucifer’s biggest fan. Maybe he can do something.”

Dean scowls at the unconscious body in the ring of holy oil. He taps Sam’s shoulder on his way out, “Just don’t get your hopes up.”

Dean comes back three hours later to give Sam a break. The younger hunter is so tired he doesn’t even argue when they trade places.

It’s somewhere in the second hour that Dean jerks awake to the sound of shifting sheets. He pushes himself up and pulls out the lighter just in case he needs to make a quick ring of holy fire because there’s no doubt in his mind that all that rustling means Michael is finally waking up.

He’s standing by the time Michael’s eyes snap open. The angel takes one look at the roof and sits up when the cuff pulls at his wrist with a rattle. Dean goes tense, but Michael doesn’t even pay attention to him; he’s too busy eyeing the carved metal.

He jerks his wrist. Hard. Hard enough Dean winces when it doesn’t do a thing but pull at the steel rail where the other cuff is attached. Then Dean just stares because cuffs made to hold demons _really_ should have shattered like butter under the force of an archangel. Michael jerks his wrist even harder this time, but the cuff holds.

It’s only when, by chance, Dean catches a glimpse of the angry red mark the struggle has already made that he jerks out of his stupor. “Hey!” he calls, carefully sticking outside of the ring of holy oil. Michael ignores him completely again, tugging hard enough a human would risk breaking bone. “ _Hey!_ ” Dean tries again, heart hammering hard in his chest.

That finally gets him Michael’s wild-eyed attention. Any doubts he’s had about the angel still being in there are gone in an instant; even a few cocoa puffs short of a balanced breakfast, it’s the same stare. Dean doesn’t think he could ever forget it, even if this isn’t anything like the eye of the storm calm he remembers from before.

Turns out it’s fine that he has no idea what he’s supposed to do now because Michael demands in a quiet, controlled threat, “What have you done?” It’s wearier than Dean is expecting though—too much resignation and too little self-righteous authority in it.

“Saved your ass,” Dean replies, “A ‘thanks’ wouldn’t kill you.”

Michael’s jaw twitches just enough to show a flash of teeth, “Free me.”

There’s the inevitable order. Dean blinks. Hope buds like a giddy thing in the pit of his stomach. It’s too good to be true, but there’s no other explanation. It’s like Sam had pointed out earlier: those cuffs should barely stall an angel. Which means…

“You can’t get out,” Dean points out dumbly.

With another furious tug of his wrist, Michael scowls at him but says nothing. It’s only then that Dean notices that all the pulling has apparently set his palm off bleeding again. It’s just a couple of spots seeped through, but it’s enough to make the point.

The only way, he figures, to know if this is real is to pull the tiger’s tail. So he steps well within the ring of holy oil, eyes dark and mocking as he can making them. “You’re not healing because you _can’t_ ,” he points out with a solid voice.

Whatever he’s expecting—apocalyptic fury, homicide—it’s not the slump of broad shoulders or the clenched-jawed, low-burning anger tampered with resignation he gets. It’s a look that shuts Dean up with the force of a punch to the gut because he knows that look: he’s worn it more times than he wants to count.

That’s not self-righteous anger at the world; that’s all self-directed.

The door opens behind him, and Adam storms through with a sleep-ruffled Sam hot on his feet. Adam gestures wildly in their direction before spitting something back at Sam. Sam doesn’t even have time to throw together a reply before the kid is marching right up next to the bed beside Dean.

Michael is quiet now. Whatever that look was before, it’s traded out for guarded curiosity.

Adam scowls and fearlessly grabs the wrist of Michael’s wrapped hand to gently peel off the bandages. He snaps something at Dean, who flounders under the unfamiliar words. The blonde rolls his eyes and points to the bandages before making a grabby hand.

Dean gets the message, but he’s way too tired to deal with it.

He digs out the first aid kit in the corner and pulls Sam outside of the door to recap.

“You think he’s human?” Sam asks, “How’s that even possible?”

Dean shrugs, “I don’t know, man. I guess we’re about to find out.”

They trade off for a while, but Dean doesn’t get much sleep.

 

 

 

Adam punches Dean square in the jaw the second he comes back to lockdown to take over for Sam.

Dean would be sort of impressed if his jaw wasn’t too busy smarting.

“Key,” the younger demands, making an expectant grabby hand again.

“Oh, hell no, junior,” the hunter snaps, “He’s _dangerous_. Besides, he got you locked up: call this payback.”

Adam looks like he’s debating trying for round two but storms off.

Sam looks like he can’t tell if he’s supposed to approve or disapprove. Dean doesn’t care. He’s too busy trying to keep his brothers safe. Besides, apparently someone is re-teaching Adam English, so there’s that bright side.

 

 

 

They find out pretty quickly via good old fashion hunger pains that it’s not just a drained battery Michael is dealing with. It’s a full blown case of humanity, and the Winchesters have to adjust strategy accordingly. The cuff goes, but the lockdown stays because Sam is sure—from what he knows from Lucifer apparently—that a depowered Michael is still dangerous if he wants to be.

Against Dean’s expectation, the guy isn’t much more of a picky eater than Sam. Granted, he skirts around meat and favors everything else, so it’s probably a good thing Sam keeps them stocked in rabbit food.

They still take turns on guard duty, but it’s a lot less pressing than before, especially after a test with an angel blade confirms that there’s no grace spilling out of the paper-thin cut along with the blood. Not to mention, Michael is typically quiet unless Adam is there. Then it’s a weird preview of watching an archangel absently correcting the kid’s English.

Adam’s not there at the moment though. Sam has dragged the poor kid off to the store for a supplies run, leaving Dean alone when he drops off Michael’s lunch and sits down with his own sandwich. The former angel picks at the soup for a minute before he purposefully meets Dean’s eyes, “You set Lucifer free, did you not?”

Dean nearly chokes on his own food. When he’s finished thumping his chest to clear his airways, he glares at Michael. “No,” he answers sourly, “He hijacked a ride out with Cas.”

Michael pauses and tilts his head to the side. It looks so much like something Cas would do that it hurts like an animal clawing at Dean’s ribs. “Castiel?” Michael asks like someone who was just told to keep driving at a dead end road, “Lucifer killed him.”

“Yeah, well that was before Daddy dearest brought ‘em back,” he grumbles, going for the infamous chink in Michael’s armor in return, “So I guess we got the last laugh on that whole Apocalypse Now crap you pulled.”

The shocking thing? It works. Blue eyes narrow dangerously. It only lasts a second though before something way too carefully blank sets in. “My brother,” he starts, voice stone-cold and dead, “Was he different?”

Dean hesitates because he’s not actually getting where this came from or where it’s going. Obviously it’s important though, or the armor of angelic stoicism wouldn’t be up. “More psycho, if that’s what you mean,” Dean answers, “Twelve kinds of crazy.”

The armor stays up, but Michael sets aside the tray of half-finished food.

He doesn’t speak again, even when Adam shows up.

 

 

 

The storm hits in the form of a rumpled, exhausted Crowley on their doorstep with a Hand of God and Lucifer right on his heels. Dean drags the demon to lockdown with the argument that it’s probably the safest place in the whole bunker. Adam is already there, so that’s the added bonus.

Crowley takes the sight of Michael and his former vessel better than expected with just a “Well, aren’t you two full of surprises?”

Dean doesn’t notice that Michael has already put together what’s going on until he’s standing next to the hunter, a lot calmer than anyone in their situation has a right to be. Much calmer than he has been since they brought him to the Bunker. “Give me a blade,” he suggests, “I’ll lead him here. Adam will know a sigil to banish him.”

Dean scowls, “Cas—“

“Will be unintentionally protected by Lucifer’s grace,” Michael interrupts him level-headedly, “His vendetta against me is the only thing that could possibly distract him. What would you have to lose?”

Dean is about to protest, but Crowley cuts him off. “Give Feathers the bloody sword!” he snaps, “Otherwise we won’t survive to work out your trust issues.”

Dean looks to Sam, who nods. Dean guesses anything Michael could do as a human probably doesn’t hold a candle to risking Sam having to face Lucifer again. He storms off to grab an angel blade. When he comes back, Michael has one arm on Adam’s shoulder and is speaking quick, quiet Enochian. The kid is nodding, but his hands are balled into trembling, white-knuckled fists.

They hear the alarms go off. Michael says something else before he grabs the blade from Dean’s hand. “Send your demon away,” he instructs before he walking out of the door and up the stairs.

Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s gone before Dean can even protest.

 

 

 

Fifteen minutes, a bruised neck, and another near-death experience later, Dean is stupidly pleased with the decision to listen. Sam is unsettled and trying to pull himself together in the corner of the dungeon. Dean is still trying to get enough air back in his lungs to breathe right. Adam is pale and shaking, but he’s still on his feet next to the sigil he’s got painted on the wall in Dean’s donated blood. Michael is looking blank-eyed like a damn robot, even with his fingers still dripping blood onto the floor next to the upgraded banishing sigil.

If there’s any doubt about Michael’s current status, it’s cleared up by the way he hadn’t even flinched at the burst of white light and magic even while his brother managed to break all things fragile in the general area right before he’d vanished. Everyone is still walking on eggshells after Adam’s freeze up from having taken one look at Lucifer. Apparently they’ve found one of the triggers for all that trauma the kid has to be repressing.

All things considered, it’s probably as smooth as a fight with the devil can be. Dean figures Michael has earned free reign of the residential areas of the bunker… for now. Also, he’s sliced open the healing wound in his hand to slam it against the sigil, so that needs to be fixed before he ends up bleeding out on day five of Human Camp.

Michael follows them upstairs this time, borrowed work boots crunching glass and splintered wood on the way while he rubs at his wrist. “Lucifer will have taken the brunt of the spell,” he announces, “If Castiel is lucky, it may allow him a few moments of control.”

They use that time to up the angel-proofing on the bunker with sigils Sam basically drools over.

Adam rolls his eyes and tells them in broken English (with a slight assist from the translation services) that he isn’t going to patch them up when they accidentally clip something important in their hands.

They don’t hear from Crowley for the rest of the day, and even then, it’s only long enough to say he’s put the Hand somewhere safe before he goes back to playing cat and mouse with the Devil.

 

 

 

Surprisingly… Michael isn’t actually half bad to have around.

Sure, he’s stubborn and aggravating as hell in ways that grate on Dean’s nerves constantly. He’s pensive, way too serious, and picks at anything non-animal on anyone’s plate because apparently he doesn’t get ‘personal space’ any more than Cas did at first. He constantly points out flaws and plot holes in Dean’s TV shows like he doesn’t get that the point is to be entertained—not to be as accurate to real-world physics and technology as humanly possible.

They throw themselves into hunts while they wait for something— _anything_ —to show up on the Lucifer or Amara front. Crowley is conspicuously quiet, probably hedging his bets while Lucifer keeps tabs on him. Michael clams up frustratingly the second the subject of his homicidal aunt is aired. Dean gets it. There’s some bad blood there, but it pisses him off to be on the celestial need-to-know basis when they’ve got one of the few beings that knows Amara personally right under their roof.

The most they get is that some serious crap went down, everyone who was there has mixed feelings on it, and their plan should be to look for the Hands of God.

(Dean still doesn’t know what to do when Sam asks about tracking down God only to have Michael scoff bitterly and announce that, clearly, they’ll find no help on that front.)

He has to admit though, if nothing else, the guy is handy on a hunt. He picks up fighting without grace like a prodigy… until he admits that he’s fought like a human, personally, in multiple wars. Being literally older than time means he can still pick out what they’re facing with relative ease. Hell. He’s not even that hard to work with while they’re under pressure. Sure, his people skills are terrible at best, but that just means they leave him with Adam while Sam and Dean handle the witnesses. The no-nonsense thing makes for a good impression of an FBI superior, and he has more than one suspicious law officer backing down over the next few weeks.

Adam starts really picking English back up, which does wonders for Dean’s nerves. The kid fills out back to a healthy look and doesn’t wake everyone up screaming in the middle of the night as often now. Granted, Michael still watches him like a mother bear, and Dean catches him coaxing the kid back from a panic attack more than once. Some part of Dean is a little pissed the former angel is allowed to because Adam usually ends up handing their asses to them when Sam and Dean try the same crap.

Still, it’s not all bad.

 

 

 

They’re out on the road again, hunting down a rouge Baku that’s screwing around with the dreams of people in town.

Dean jumps awake, covered in sweat and fear. It takes a good five minutes to get his head wrapped around the fact that he’s just had his first dream of Hell in nearly three years. When he closes his eyes, he can still see it— _hear Alistair’s chuckle ringing in his ears_. He tries to go as long as he can without blinking. 

Sam is snoring away on the other bed, so Dean gets up and heads outside.

He doesn’t expect someone to be sitting in the Impala. His hand goes for his gun before he actually recognizes the head of dark hair and the set of square shoulders under the new jacket. Dean lets out a breath of relief and climbs into the driver’s seat. He makes a grabby hand across the middle consul until Michael sighs softly and drops the keys into his palm. 

“So,” Dean starts. He sees the narrowed-eyed, defensive look even in the pale light of the fluttering “Motel” sign. Whatever the hell this is isn’t up for discussion. But Dean can deal with that; he’s not really a ‘feelings’ sort of guy anyway. With the key jammed into the ignition, he closes the door and looks at the angel. “I’m hungry. You?”

Michael tilts his head, and it looks so much like Cas it hurts. At least his scrutiny is different: older and a lot sharper-edged. Slowly, he nods.

Finding a place that serves rabbit food in the middle of suburbia at three in the morning is ridiculous. They find it in the form of a Mom and Pop truck stop on the outskirts of town. The waitress—the owner’s sister—says something about their niece going vegan a few years ago. Michael doesn’t look that interested, so Dean gives her a polite smile and some good natured, idle chatter.

When the waitress—Adie—leaves them with their drinks, Dean focuses back on Michael, who has taken to swirling the straw in his glass of water. His shoulders are tense, but his posture is slumped. Something old sits in his eyes like the core of a dead star.

It… make something uncomfortable tap at the back of Dean’s mind because he’s learning that’s sort of what Michael is now: something grand and huge that burned out a long time ago and didn’t quite have the kick left to completely collapse in on itself. He wonders if maybe this hasn’t been a process centuries in the making that only finally broke in Cage.

He blames the depressing shit in his head on the dreams of Alistair and the Pit. Maybe he should be more worried, considering this probably has something to do with the thing they’re hunting, but he figures one episode at a time is enough.

Desperate to get his thoughts moving, he sighs into his coffee, “How’d you get the keys anyway?”

Michael blinks away the look Dean can’t read and trades it for an unimpressed one, “Sam and Adam always trade spare room keys.”

Dean doesn’t ask him what exactly he thought he was doing, sitting alone in the Impala at three in the morning, just like he doesn’t offer any explanation about being awake and outside to catch him. He does most of the talking through the meal, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind. Dean leaves a pretty decent tip on the table before they head back. It’s four am now, and he doesn’t really want to risk Sam or Adam waking up and panicking because they forgot to leave a note.

The radio hums Bon Jovi, and the quiet rumble of the Impala’s engine lulls Dean back down, far from the place he’d been when he’d woken up. It’s… surprisingly not that bad, which seems to be an increasingly common phrase with their latest passenger.

Until the dick goes and ruins it with a muttered, “You don’t dream of Hell often, do you?”

To his credit, Dean thinks he’s got a legitimate reason to level a glare. “Not anymore,” he snaps shortly. He’s about to add on some smart ass comment about Heaven’s grand plan when he catches the look out of the corner of his eyes. The one that’s drawn up and so carefully neutral, it’s obvious there’s something bigger than this under it all. “That what this is all about? The Cage?”

Michael watches the windshield instead of Dean. And the hunter _gets_ that look: the one that’s supposed to be all soldier to smother out the person under it. He’s pretty sure that’s all Michael is running on these days, and Dean knows from personal experience it’s not a good place to be.

“The dreams are no concern to me,” Michael answers, but the pinch in his forehead tells a different story. Dean is about to call him on it when he shifts restlessly and choses to look out of the passenger window instead. “I woke up and couldn’t remember the name of the cherub who ran messages between me and Raphael.” His fingers curl into fists on the knees of his jeans. The next words come out as a rough whisper. “Then I realized that I couldn’t remember what Father’s face looks like.”  

Later, Dean will probably smack himself for the carelessness of his next statement, but it’s four in the morning, and he’s loaded with three cups of coffee and nightmares, “The last one, I get. But why are you worried about forgetting lower management?”

Michael goes still in a way that’s angel speak for ‘furious,’ ‘insulted,’ or ‘terrified.’ Judging by the glare, it’s the first two, “I knew all of my siblings’ names, from cherub to archangel—what their role was, where they were assigned, and which heaven they preferred in their free time.” He lets out a slow breath through his nose and glares at the road again.

It clicks then. Dean isn’t stupid. He knows there’s limited storage space in a human brain—only so many so much to store information in. While it’s not really a problem humans ever have to deal with, Michael is _old_. Maybe even the fourth being in the history of everything by some counts, depending on where the Leviathan come in. That’s a _lot_ of memories. It’s probably like trying to cram all the information in a supercomputer into a flip phone.

Files have to get deleted, apparently, to make way for the new crap.

When Dean pulls into a gas station, Michael is still giving him that narrowed-eyed, ‘ _What the hell?_ ’ look. “Stay put,” he tells the former angel when he climbs out. They’re running low on cash, and he’s forgotten to pick up the new credit card, but he figures he’ll make it up to Sam later. Five minutes later, he dumps a slice of boxed pie in Michael’s lap and hands him one of those nasty-ass smoothies he and Sam inexplicably like.

“...We just ate,” Michael points out suspiciously, juggling the Styrofoam cup and cardboard triangle. It’d almost be adorable if Dean let himself think that.

The hunter huffs and pushes the rest of the snacks into the back seat, “Yeah? Well, now you’re human, and depressing shit requires pie.”

To his credit, the pie is gone by the time they pull into the hotel lot.

He sneaks the cheap travel journal into Adam and Michael’s room two days later just to maintain his cover as a Grade A jackass to all things angel (besides Cas). If he catches a glimpse of Michael sketching sigils and multi-winged creatures with too many eyes into the pages of the thing on the way back to the Bunker, he decides to play it off as having a way to keep at least one of the back seat passengers quiet and entertained on long car rides.

 

 

 

Adam has a panic attack and tries to stab them with a kitchen knife.

Michael manages to calm him down with a constant, low rumble of Enochian that somehow sounds different when he pronounces it. The end tally is a pale Sam, shaken Adam, and a clean, shallow slice across Michael’s forearm. Dean announces that they’re taking the rest of the day off and immediately heads to the garage.

It’s been six weeks, so he recognizes the difference between Michael’s steps and Sam’s. Better yet, he recognizes the pair of ragged, dark work boots Michael still refuses to part with. “Adam settled?” Dean asks, grunting as he has to add more torque to the ratchet.

“Yes,” Michael answers. There’s a shuffle as he sits cross legged against the diver side door, “Sam took him outside.”

Dean relaxes because Adam always asks to go outside after an attack. Apparently the sky is one of the few things the Cage—and possibly Lucifer—never let him see. “Good,” he mutters.

It’s quiet for a while. Just the noises of Dean’s tools and their smooth, easy breathing.

“You’re worried about Castiel,” Michael finally decides.

Dean snorts, “No shit, Sherlock.” He has been since the beginning, and every time Adam breaks down, it gets worse because this is the result of someone crammed up with Lucifer for extended periods of time. He’s even picked up some of the same signals from Michael. Sure, it’s not nearly as obvious, but he goes on the defensive around locked doors and small, dark spaces. Dean sighs and switches tools, “You heard what Lucifer said: Cas thinks he’s _expendable_.”

“So do you,” Michael replies with brutal neutrality.

Dean grits his teeth because they’re not here to talk about him. “Yeah,” he admits, “So what? I’m not the one with Lucifer crammed in my head.”

“But you could have been,” Michael replies, “If you thought that he could kill Amara.”

Dean resists the sudden urge to slide out from under the car and punch the former angel, “Can he? Kill Amara.”

That shuts Michael up for a minute at least. Until he gets his bearings again and sighs. “No. Not alone,” he says, “Which is why he’ll mass an army, but I doubt that will be enough.” Dean tries not to let it show how much that makes him worry. “Regardless,” Michael continues, “My point stands: if you try to ‘cash in’ on whatever connects you to Amara for an advantage, it will end the same as Castiel.”

Dean doesn’t even think about asking how he knows about that. He just slides from under the car to fully express how unimpressed he is. “What the hell else am I supposed to do?” he demands, hating that it comes out more desperate than he intends it. Now that it’s out, though, he just plows on forward. “I _can’t_ kill her. I don’t know why, but I’m dead weight here, and I’m going to get everybody killed if I keep this up.”  

Michael watches him for a second before he nods, “Then we supplant it.”

He says it like it’s easy, which leaves Dean gaping. “The hell does that mean?”

And there’s that smug half-smile for the first time since the apocalypse, “Magic.”

 

 

 

Whatever Dean was expecting, it’s not the full blown pagan alter, complete with painted symbols and herbs, but that’s basically what he gets. Sam takes one look at one of the symbols, turns completely red, and walks out without a word. “So uh…” Dean tries in light of that little incident, “How exactly does this work?”

Michael is busy lighting candles, so he doesn’t actually look up when he talks. His voice is low and assured in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. “The magic that ties you to Amara is old and strong. She isn’t a part of my Father’s Creation, which further complicates it. It should manifest as something like emotional feedback—a push-pull.”

Dean licks his lips and makes sure Sam and Adam aren’t within earshot, “…Okay.”

“You need a bond on Creation’s side to cancel it,” Michael continues, clearly in Professor-mode. Which is _not_ actually a… sort of decent look, Dean reminds himself, because the Dr. Sexy thing was just a stupid phase. “Castiel would be preferable at this point since your soul is familiar with his grace.” The frown there gives the distinct impression that he isn’t exactly happy about that. “But you were capable of being my vessel, so we’ll simply have to hope I haven’t developed a soul.”

Dean has no idea what souls have to do with all this or the physics of fallen angels. “Yeah…” he tries again, “I meant the mechanics of all this crap.”

Michael blows out the match and gives him the ‘ _Do you seriously do this for a living_ ’ look, “It’s pagan magic: blood or sex. Either will work.”

Oh. And _that_ would be why Sam ran off.

“Blood,” Dean decides automatically. Because _dammit_ their lives are weird enough as it is. If he’s sleeping with anybody, it’s not going to be for some freaky pagan ritual.

Michael smiles, small and amused. Apparently he’s getting a kick out of this. Dean is a little too stunned by ‘good humored Michael’ that he keeps his mouth shut. “I thought so,” the fallen angel says and promptly opens up a vein. Dean ends up doing the same thing. They clasp hands across the table, blood mixing and dripping into a brass bowl on the table. Michael says a line of words that sound old and well-practiced. Dean gets the feeling they’ve been recently translated and wonders again just how much of himself Michael has lost since his mojo got zapped.

It’s all basically anticlimactic. The bowl flashes pale blue. There’s a bit of fire, and that’s basically that. Dean says as much, and Michael points out that, if his batteries were charged, it would’ve been a _lot_ different.

They’re halfway through with the clean up when Dean blurts out, half joking, half curious, “So what would you have done if I’d gone for sex?”

He feels sort of stupid asking the second he’s met with surprised silence. It’s not that he hasn’t… y’know… _looked_. There was that thing with Dr. Sexy. And _maybe_ he didn’t exactly know where to look in _Dirty Dancing_. So it’s not really the ‘man’ thing. It’s mostly that, yeah, Michael may be human now, but that wasn’t always the case. Even if he was a royal dick back then.

“I don’t know,” Michael answers, looking somehow more curious.

Dean gets the weird feeling that means a lot more than he knows.

 

 

 

Sam, the insufferable jerk, is convinced that crazy, kinky sex magic happened and refuses to be corrected. Dean constantly argues that he’s sure any sex involving their resident fallen angel would be the furthest thing from kinky… Which backfires when he ends up shouting it around the time Michael walks into the room with a bag of vegie straws and, thankfully, no clue what they’re talking about.

Adam thinks it’s hilarious. Since the kid is smiling again, Dean decides to shut up and play along.

Somewhere between hunting down a nest of vampires and a chimera, they come up with a plan to save Cas. It’s risky, and Dean isn’t sure he likes how much it relies on Michael’s insistence that Lucifer won’t flat-out kill him. All they’re lacking is a way to draw Lucifer out.

And then the djinn happens.

They spend a day tracking Sam down to a warehouse, where the thing had ‘stored’ him after it’d apparently taken a ridiculous interest in Michael. Sam guesses it has something to do with the fallen angel thing—probably more energy, or at least a different kind.

Dean doesn’t care because it’s starting to dawn on him that, yeah, Michael is a dick, but he’s gotten used to having the guy around. Maybe part of him is even starting to like the guy, rabbit diet and all.

When they track the djinn down to the dilapidated house on the outskirts of town, they take it down fast, and Dean spends the next fifteen minutes trying to slap and shout Michael out of the hallucinations. On the third try, blue eyes snap open. Dean is used to dealing with Djinn victims. Hell, he’s been there, done that. He knows what to expect, but somehow the raw, unguarded devastation in those eyes hits him like a punch.

Michael pushes Dean off and manages to march to the car before he all but collapses.

Nobody says a word on the two hour drive back to the bunker.

 

 

 

That night, Dean wakes up to the sound of glass breaking.

He’s up with his pistol and an angel blade before he’s fully awake.

He follows the rummaging noises to the kitchen. It isn’t a monster, and it isn’t Lucifer. It’s Michael, sitting in a chair with his back to Dean just outside of a sea of broken glass. The smell of alcohol tells him what was in the glass bottle, and the hissed curses tell him it probably isn’t the first one Michael’s had ahold of tonight.

He sets the weapons down on a table in the hallway and tries not to breathe a sigh of relief. “So,” he starts. He sees Michael’s shoulders go rigid in the dark. It’s so uncharacteristically telegraphed, Dean knows something is really wrong. “I’m going to get my shoes.”

They’re luckily nearby, and Dean has them on before Michael can make his inevitable escape. He flips the light on in the kitchen and catches the sharp intake of breath it causes. Now he can see the beer’s label off to the corner of the counter along with the three other empty bottles lined up on the counter. There’re bloody footprints all over the epicenter of the mess that lead right back to Michael’s chair. Even from this angle, Dean can tell the fallen angel has one heel propped carefully up to keep the bottom from touching the floor while the other is curled in his lap.

“What the hell did you do?” Dean demands, marching forward to see that, yup, both feet are torn up and bleeding. He grabs one of the first aid kit out of the cabinets. It’s not the field kit they take on hunts, but it’ll do for something like this. “You can’t just walk over glass.”

Michael looks angry. Not the stoic, angelic brand with squinty, judge-y eyes; the ugly human kind that telegraphs everywhere and threatens to burn everything down around it. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Get frigging help and not bleed all over the damn kitchen!” Dean snaps, moving a chair. He doesn’t think about it when he grabs the foot Michael doesn’t have in his lap and settles the fallen angel’s leg across his knees. Michael doesn’t stop him, so he goes for the tweezers because there’s already enough blood everywhere. Luckily, nothing seems to be too bad. It takes a while. Michael stays quiet while he works. Whether the ridiculous pain tolerance is a strictly ‘Michael’ thing or a ‘Cage’ thing, Dean doesn’t really want to know. He only sets the foot aside long enough to grab a bowl of water and a washcloth. It’s pretty quick cleanup all things considered.

It’s not long before he points to the other foot and starts all over.

“I was with my brothers,” Michael mutters abruptly in the silence, “And I wanted to forget.”

Dean looks up to see that the glare that had been aimed at the roof ten minutes ago has softened into something blank and unreadable. Michael is apparently drunk enough to slouch against the back of the chair. The toes of his wrapped foot are slowly moving, like he’s trying to figure out what he can get away with without hurting.

It’s all a little too endearingly human for comfort.

Dean sighs because he doesn’t know how his life became babysitting drunk, fallen angels with their four am freak outs. “Yeah. Word to the wise: you’re barking up the wrong tree there. Trust me. I know.”

Michael chuckles, careless and bitter, “I noticed.” He looks less ready to burn something to the ground, though, so that’s good. Still, there’s something weird about the way he starts watching as Dean takes enough time to wrap up the second foot to avoid unnecessary pressure on the cuts.

Dean ignores it and taps Michael’s shin when he’s done. “Okay,” he announces, “Let’s get you back to bed before you break something else.”

Michael frowns but waits quietly until Dean sweeps a safe, glass-free path out of the kitchen. He’s sure Michael hates it, but he winds the fallen angel’s arm around his shoulders and nearly stumbles at the weight that’s instantly staggering at his side. Sure, hunts keep him in pretty good shape, but Dean isn’t getting any younger, and Michael’s latest vessel is only an inch or two shorter.

“Alright,” Dean decides, “Next time you go at the booze, we’re taking it slow.”

Michael’s fingers curl into Dean’s sleeve as he tries to be discrete about being light on his feet while trying to fight off the after effects of the alcohol. It doesn’t go well, but they manage to stagger back to the room Michael has claimed as his own. They’re at the bed when Michael goes down abruptly, pulling Dean with him. He has no idea how Michael does it, but he’s got Dean on his back, pressed down by both hands on his shoulder before the hunter even knows it’s deliberate.

Granted, Michael also has to take a second to steady himself after the sudden movements.

As soon as he does, Dean grabs his wrists, intent on demanding what the hell he thinks he’s doing. And then one of those hands is moving, brushing gently across his jaw like he’s something… frigging _good_ , and everything in Dean freezes on instinct.

“Do you know,” Michael slurs, close enough Dean can smell the beer on his breath, “how long it’s been since someone looked at me like you do?” Dean doesn’t get it. None of it’s computing, and it apparently shows because Michael is just soldiering on while his thumb traces the curve of Dean’s cheek. “Like I’m more than a weapon. Like I can break, too.” He shakes his head with a smile that isn’t really a smile, “I can’t even remember.”

The declaration shocks Dean into finally getting enough wits about himself to gently push back, “You’re drunk, dude. I get it; djinn are nasty sons of bitches, but—”

Michael is laughing, his weight rolling off to the side where warm breath puffs against Dean’s neck.

Dean has no idea what what’s so funny, and it only dawns on him a couple seconds later that Michael is already out cold. Dean slips out of the room as fast as he can. Sam gives him a narrow-eyed, suspicious look on his way to the bathroom that Dean just brushes off to head back to the kitchen. The mindlessness of the cleanup lets him forget for a while until he’s awake enough (and possibly drunk enough) to process of all that.

He sneaks back in long enough to leave a bottle of water and pill for the inevitable hangover.

 

 

 

They don’t talk about it.

Nobody mentions how Michael skips breakfast the next morning, or the fact that the kitchen still smells like stale beer. Dean doesn’t bother explaining. Michael trudges in at lunch, looking like he’s gone three rounds with bulldozer. If anyone else suspects there’s more to it than the djinn, they don’t ask.

Even if there’s a slight wince with each step he takes.

There’s a couple days of tense awkwardness, but it fades out slowly while they pull things together long enough to try and get Cas back.

That plan backfires the whole way through, from the wards not coming through on time to Michael’s refusal to fight his brother just pumping up Lucifer’s rage with each time. For ten long minutes, Dean is pinned against the wall by grace while they watch the cat-and-mouse game. For the last two minutes, he’s actually terrified Lucifer has forgotten that his brother is mortal now and all too fragile.

The stalling works because Adam has the wards working only a minute later. There’s a feedback-like screech that has Dean doubling over to try and clamp his hands around his ears and a flash of light before Cas’s body drops like a stone.

Michael, the closest of them, is still hunched over where he sits, panting lightly and whipping the blood from his nose on his sleeve when Dean reaches them. Cas still has a pulse, which might be good news since there’s no soul left in there to keep Jimmy’s body going.

“It’s Castiel,” Michael tells him, “Lucifer has retreated to Hell. Temporarily.”

Dean grins, his ears still ringing. “Thanks, man,” he says before the adrenaline fades because none of this would have worked without Michael.

Something softens somewhere in Michael’s eyes.

When Cas wakes up a few minutes later, Dean claps him on the shoulder and soundly informs him that he’s an idiot, but he’s family, so he gets a pass this time. Sam offers to catch him up on whatever it is that he’s missed. Adam barges in and tells him story time is for after everyone has been patched up.

They ride home with a full car to celebrate.

 

 

 

The night they get back to the bunker, a ‘Welcome Home, Cas’ party is kicked up. Sam has Netflix going, complete with popcorn and candy. Cas looks like kicked puppy for the start of the night, but it fades away two episodes into _Daredevil_. Adam seems weirdly okay, all things considered, and shrugs when Dean asks. Apparently booting Lucifer out of his latest vessel hasn’t exactly hurt the kid’s self-confidence.

Michael settles off to the side. Dean is pretty sure neither he or Castiel have any idea what to do with each other, but both of them are determined to let it go for now.

Later that night, they break apart and head to their respective rooms. Dean is still hyped up on the adrenaline and the rare taste of victory when he stops Michael in the empty hall. He means to say ‘thanks’ one more time. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s that self-satisfied half-smile, or maybe it’s the pleasant buzz.

He doesn’t stop long enough to think about why this is a terrible idea before they’re kissing. What’s more, he doesn’t even realize he’s flying totally blind until his back hits the wall before a gentle, inquisitive tongue licks once over the seam of his lips. Dean decides ‘ _screw it_ ’ and draws the tongue past his own lips.

When lack of air snaps him back into reality, all he knows is that they _really_ shouldn’t be doing this in the open hallway. He manages to coax them back into his room. They pull apart long enough to collapse in a tangle of limbs on the bed.

It’s only when he’s got his hands planted on either side of Michael’s head, thighs bracketing thighs, that he stops and realizes that this is a thing that’s happening. “You sure about this?” he asks. It’s not Dean’s first rodeo with a dude, no matter what Sam seems to think; he’s pretty sure that isn’t the case on Michael’s side—dude or otherwise—so he figures it’s better to be clear.

The familiar half-smile is softer and a hell of a lot less smug than it once was. With the kiss-swollen lips, it’s… kind of hot. Calloused fingers slid under Dean’s shirt, playing out nonsense patterns against his lower back. “You think too much,” Michael tells him.

Dean nips at his neck in retribution and lavishes the spot with attention afterward. He’s obnoxiously proud of the sharp intake in Michael’s breath. “This is me being considerate, you ass,” he points out, “You’re freaking _angel_. Isn’t all this off limits?”

Michael’s laughter isn’t loud or long-lived, but it’s warm and rich: something a part of Dean thinks he could learn to appreciate while the rest of him ignores that. The hunter has only mixed feelings and sex a handful of times, and there’s enough history here he’d rather just stick to the simple stuff. Instead, Dean leans up to show off just how unamusing he finds all this.

And there’s that hand on the side of his face again, thumb brushing careful, appeasing patterns against Dean’s cheek. “I’ve never wanted before, Dean,” Michael tells him bluntly, “Out of all the decisions I regret, this won’t be one of them.”

Later, Dean will tell himself that the desperate kiss is the product of trying to shut down the gushy talk about feelings. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, he’ll know: It’s about more than that.

There’s something pretty damn powerful about being the focus of one of the few selfish choices this ancient, impossible creature has made. Dean knows himself well enough to understand that there’s part of him that _likes_ being wanted—not as some righteous ‘vessel’ but just because he’s Dean Winchester.

He’s stupidly grateful for the feeling of skin-on-skin and rut of jean-clad hips because the sensation drives away all the chick-flicking he hates going on in his own head.

For a little while, Dean stops thinking.

 

 

 

The next morning isn’t nearly as awkward as Dean is expecting. Sure, it takes him a couple minutes to register that, yeah, he’s in his own bed at the bunker and, yeah, that’s someone else’s elbow poking into his ribs. That said, it’s probably not the worst thing to wake up tangled loosely around another person. The broad shoulders and sleep-mused dark hair are just icing on the eye candy at that point.

He’s trying to pick up the motivation to move when he sees them: the faint little scars scattered here and there. He felt them last night—even licked his way across a couple of them for the hell of it—but in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t noticed how weird some of them are. It takes him a full minute to connect the half-circle around Michael’s bicep with shark-like teeth. He’s tracing it before he can think better of it because, apparently, his restraint is shit when it comes to Michael.

“Leviathan,” comes the tired murmur, half absorbed by the pillow.

Dean is inexplicably satisfied with the memory of stabbing Dick Roman, even if the memories of Purgatory turn it sour. He distracts himself by going after another scar that looks a lot more familiar. It’s thin, just a short sliver just under Michael’s rib cage. It’s barely even visible over the hem of the blanket.

“Gabriel,” Michael continues. He has to feel Dean tense because he turns just enough to make eye contact. His eyes are half-lidded, but he’s waking up a lot quicker than Dean. “It was an accident.”

Dean lifts a brow because he’s totally unimpressed. He’s also sort of confused, so he goes after one more piece of evidence; his fingers slide around Michael’s ribs to seek out the most obvious scar against his left shoulder. This time, Michael is the one who tenses. Dean feels the hesitation in the shift of muscle against his chest—sees it in the way Michael lays his head back down so Dean can’t see his face. Dean has a feeling he knows what’s coming even before the resigned exhale of “Lucifer.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure that this one wasn’t an accident.

Dean pulls his hands away because it’s way too early for this level of crap. “I thought you guys fought the leviathan before vessels existed,” he points out.

Michael rolls over. Dean tries to ignore the self-satisfaction at the sight of love bites still lingering here and there because he’s pretty sure he’s still boasting a couple. “We did,” Michael answers, looking at his hand where it lays against the pillow, “I remember nothing after escaping Hell. There was no soul in this body when I woke.”

Dean sits up, sheets pooling around his hips. “So… what?” he asks, making a vague hand wave at the body he’s now associating with the personality, “You think your Dad did this?”

Michael frowns thoughtfully without bothering to get up. Instead, he stretches into the space now unoccupied like a lazy cat. “I don’t know,” he admits, “I’m unsure of anything regarding my Father these days.”

Dean sighs and rubs his hands over his face to try and wake up. So much for avoiding loaded topics. “It’s too early for existential crises,” he announces, “I’m going for breakfast.”

By the time Dean gets cleaned up and dressed, Michael is asleep again.

He doesn’t sit around and cuddle because that’s the last thing either of them are made for. He does, however, leave come back long enough to drop off a tray of breakfast before he goes to check in with Sam and Cas.

It's not 'happily ever after,' but it's... something. A start, maybe. 


End file.
